One year later

The Fourth of July is less than a week away, and while this is a special holiday for Americans, for me, it is laced with a bittersweet feeling of loss and remembrance of a different kind.  This year’s Fourth will mark one year since I lost my physical grandfather to Alzheimer’s, although he really died at some undefined time before that.  I usually write my posts about things in a whimsical sort of tone, but real life is not always so sunny, and this particular event is something I am thinking a lot about lately.  Most of you that read this may have even known my grandpa, and others may have only heard about him, but I want to tell you who he was to me.

Mahlon “Bill” Adams grew up on a farm in Ada, Kansas, one of four boys.  In an ironic twist, he himself had no sons and four daughters (although he was always considered his girls’ spouses his own sons).  Then from those four girls came all grandsons and one granddaughter – me.  Because of these gender lines in our family and the age spread of my cousins, I always had a very special relationship with my grandfather.  He was forever my Papa, and I, his Little Cottontail.  If there was ever a man that could be summed in one word, that was Papa, and that word was jokester.  When he laughed, he laughed with his whole body, shoulders hunched over and shaking up and down.  Further to that, Papa was the funniest person he knew, which made him all the easier to love. 





Papa and me circa 2000

 
As a child, I had a beloved blankie that he was always trying to steal from me just to get a rise out of me.  The game became that if I was touching Bear (my grandma), I was on “safe base” and he had to let go of my blankie.  At one point around age 8 or so, I got so fed up with his shenanigans that I took out a pair of scissors and cut a very small square out of my blankie and said, “HERE!!  Now you have your own and can leave me alone!”  He immediately chuckled and pulled out his wallet and slid the square into it.  He carried that swatch around in his wallet for more than 15 years, tucked right next to a picture of me.  I’ve been told that he often pulled it out and repeated this story to his buddies at his coffee group.  Unfortunately, that piece of blankie got lost at the end of his life, when he was repeatedly pulling things in and out of his wallet as a way to make sure things were all in order.  That’s not the end of that story, but I will get to that...


Papa was a cabinet builder and from an early age on the farm he was building his own toys.  As a little girl, Papa built me my very own dollhouse with customized wooden furniture, a pink painted broomstick horse that he teasingly named Plug, a small wooden step-stool, and a baby doll bed.  Bear always jokes that when he built the doll bed, she warned him, “You know she is just going to climb right in that.”  He replied, “Oh no she won’t!  She knows she’s too big for this.”  Guess who won that bet?  Hey, I was only 2 ½ - in my eyes it looked like it was my size!


Papa taught me how to give a Wet Willie, how to peel an apple, how to fry bacon on a campfire, and how to snore quite properly.  He also unfortunately taught me the cruelty that life sometimes hands.  When I was in middle school, Papa was diagnosed with prostate cancer.  I remember the heavy weight of fear and sadness that set into my chest when my mom first told me he had cancer.  In my mind, that immediately meant death, and I felt physically incapacitated thinking of it, until my mom assured me that it should be treatable.  Luckily it was very treatable and he never had any other cancer scares after the initial treatment.  It was a handful of years later when he was diagnosed with dementia and finally Alzheimer’s.  If I’m being honest, I don’t remember those days.  I was in high school and college when the symptoms starting showing up, and I was probably just too consumed in my own problems to really allow myself to grasp the reality of the situation.  When I graduated college in 2006 though, that was when I started to tune in to what was going on with him.


I still saw Papa at most holidays, but in between that, I didn’t have regular communication with him, so I think I tended to brush off the things my mom was saying about his decline – him not being able to button his shirts anymore, his more frequent naps, his coming in and out of conversations, his stumbles when he was walking.  When I closed my eyes, all I wanted to see was that goofy man with the pot belly, plaid shirt, and trucker hat.  If I started acknowledging these things as a sign of anything, it made it all real, and that was not a reality I was prepared to face.  It became even easier for my denial to grow when I moved to New York in 2007.  I then saw him even less than before and was less conscience of his digression.  For a long time I believe he tried to hide what was going on with himself.  He was ashamed.  To me, I think this must have been the worst time for him, being somewhere in between awake and asleep, knowing that everyday he was going to lose a little more of himself.


In the last year of his life, my mom and my Aunt Shellie were visiting him nearly every weekend, in order to give some relief to my grandmother.  Whenever my mom would tell me how the weekend went, I would cry because the man she was describing was not the same man I had held close to my heart for 25 years.  At one point my mom insisted that I plan a trip to come home to see him.  I knew that it was a goodbye visit, but I would not allow myself to admit it.  That was April of 2009 and that was the last time I saw him.  At some point shortly after that trip, I had to ask my mom to stop updating me on his illness.  It was too hard for me to think about, especially when I couldn’t just get in the car and drive three hours and be sitting next to him, holding his hand, and every picture I saw of him, he seemed to age 5 more years.  His face had started to droop, he was losing weight, and that toothy grin was barely there anymore.


The week of Christmas that year, my mom called and told me it was time to put Papa in a care facility.  Those all-too familiar feelings of fear and sadness took me over again.  I had thought I would get to see him one last time, but it was too late.  He was too far gone at that point.  There was such a strange silence that year at Christmas.  It wasn’t full of its usual joy.


In June of 2010, I knew the end was near for him.  He no longer recognized any of his daughters or my grandmother, and he would not eat or drink.  I am glad that I never saw him in that state.  It makes it easier for me to preserve the positive memories of him in my mind, but there is also a part of me that wonders if he would have mistaken me for my grandmother as young woman, as I look so much like her.  And would that have made his world better for just a few moments?  I don’t know at what point this changed, but Bear always tells me that even once he was moved into the care facility, a smile would come onto his face with mention of my name.

Papa and Bear

On the morning of the 4^th, my phone rang and I saw it was my dad calling.  The ever-presiding head of the family, I have not seen my father cry but two times in my life.  But there he was, on the other end of the line, barely able to speak.  All he could muster out was, “Papa’s gone.”


As much as I had tried to prepare myself for that moment and knew that it was on the horizon, I was in total shock at that moment.  I suddenly found myself unable to support the weight of my own body and fell onto my bed, weeping for what felt like a physical pain in my body.  I could not breathe.  I could not speak.  I wanted it all not to be real.  This pain would surely be over and everything would be back to normal, right?  But that’s the thing about death…there is no going back, no do-overs.  The only thing that gave me the littlest bit of comfort was knowing that the body that had taken my Papa hostage could no longer turn him into someone he was not.

One positive thing about having a fatal disease is that it allowed our family to prepare a funeral that rang through Bill Adams in every aspect.  I won’t go into all the details of that, but the one thing that will always stick out in my mind was how clear the sky was that day.  For some reason, it made me feel at peace.  I felt like I was looking at a landscape that could only be created in movies and paintings, and I knew it was just the way he would have wanted it.



The sky and the view at Papa's funeral.  Amazing photo is courtesy of Sam.



One year later I’m still fighting his loss on a daily basis.  He is in my dreams almost every night and so I never want to leave them.  I’ve started volunteering in the New York City chapter of the Alzheimer’s Association in order to help deal with my grief.  I am not the only one with this story, and it helps to surround myself with young people who can relate.  Every time I do something for the organization, I hope that Papa is looking down on me with pride.

A few weeks ago I was home in Kansas City, and I was sitting out on the back deck of my parents’ house talking with my sister-in-law, Kimi and Bear.  I was telling Kimi how Bear had given me her wedding earrings when I graduated from high school, to wear at my own wedding one day.  She asked me to describe them and I realized that they were upstairs in the storage closet, so I went to look for them.  I found the box where I knew the earrings were and with them was a card that I had not recalled ever having received.  Inside was a note that Papa had written to me and half of the swatch of my blankie I had given him all those years ago.  In the note he told of how he would always carry the other half with him and be reminded of me and that when I looked at my half, I would know how much he loved me.  I had never felt his love more… 

A Tale of Two Cities

Over Memorial Day weekend, Sammy and I ventured off to Chicago for a little getaway.

The trip started off a little rocky when the cab driver dropped us off at the wrong terminal.  We were flying Delta Shuttle, which we mistakenly assumed was the same as Delta.  We didn't realize our mistake until we were attempting to go through security and were informed we were in the wrong terminal.  The correct terminal was not within walking distance either, so we had to hail another cab and reload our luggage.  The driver pulled us up to what looked like a regional airport, which was actually the Marine Terminal of La Guardia Airport.  Luckily the line was super short, so we managed to get through security and at our gate with just 10 minutes to spare.

Once we arrived in Chicago, we realized it was much colder there than it had been back in New York.  I started to panic that I had not packed properly, but Sam assured me the weather forecast slated Friday to be the coolest day.  We got checked into our room at the Westin on N. Michigan Avenue.  If we went back, we would not stay in the area again.  It was a bit like staying in Times Square in New York - too many tourists and did not give a real feel for the true city.  

For lunch we went to the classic Chicago dive called Billy Goat's Tavern.  It has been in Chicago since 1939 and is cash only.  The menu consists of hamburger, double hamburger, cheeseburger, double cheeseburger, or grilled cheese.  They do not serve fries or rings, and do not serve Pepsi products.  Their motto is, "No fries, chips!  No Pepsi, Coke!"  Stepping up in the line to order was a bit intimidating and reminiscent of the Soup Nazi.  The man behind the counter was much nicer than the Soup Nazi, although when I tried to order a grilled cheese, he said, "Grilled cheese?  No.  Double cheese!" (as in double cheeseburger).  When I stood waiting for my food, I was unsure whether or not I would actually get my grilled cheese or not.  I ended up getting my grilled cheese and Sam had the double cheeseburger.  It was cool to be at such an iconic place.

After lunch, we headed to Millennium Park.  Luckily the sun was out that day, so we were able to enjoy some beautiful views, even if it was chilly.  Sam took photos of the outdoor art and the expansive garden there.  We made our way to the south end of the park and toured the Chicago Art Institute and got to see several famous paintings.  That night we had a wonderful dinner at Frontera Grill, a Rick Bayless Mexican-style restaurant.  It was no KC Mexican food (I'm extremely biased on that one...), but it was pretty tasty, and we had a really entertaining waiter with an interesting curly tipped mustache.

Inside of the Art Institute.

The "Bean" in Millennium Park.

Water art in Millennium Park.

Shot of downtown buildings.

The next morning, we awoke to a clouded sky and the same cool temperatures from the day before, but we tried not to let it deter our excitement for the Cubbies vs. Pirates game at Wrigley Field.  We got there early enough to walk through Wrigleyville and I got my very first Cubs t-shirt.  Sam was really excited to see his favorite team play and I was excited to be at Wrigley for the first time.  The game started off scoreless through the first three or four innings, and we enjoyed some beer, hot dogs, and ballpark nachos.  Then the Pirates started scoring.  And scoring.  And scoring!  When we left the game was 10-0.  Sam started rattling off statements that could only be heard elsewhere from one Rick Martin, such as, "God, I don't even know why I watch this team anymore!  They are absolutely worthless!  They constantly play like garbage and always let me down!!  I wish I had never become a fan of these freaking Cubs!!  They are an embarrassment to baseball!"  Etc, etc, etc. (I will spare you the obscenities).

Sammy and me in front of Wrigley.

After we left I wanted to stop in Nordstrom Rack that was near our hotel so I could use a gift card I had.  Just as we got to the store, it started raining.  By the time we left it was downpouring, so we had to purchase two umbrellas from there too.  We made the five minute walk back to our hotel and successfully got drenched in the process.  We had planned to go to the 96th floor of the Hancock Building that night, so we were bummed that the views would be distorted with clouds.  We ended up going anyway and were able to see some of the fog lift before sunset.

Dinner that night was beyond amazing.  We ate at a place several people had recommended called The Publican.  It was in an area of Chicago that had a sort of Brooklyn feel to it.  The seating was family style, so you ended up sitting with strangers next to you.  I actually really liked it because it sparked conversation.  It was an Americana style tapas theme, and there wasn't a single thing we got that we didn't love.  The best thing we had was a barbecued pork belly.  It literally melted in your mouth.  We also had this raw asparagus dish that I'm bound to recreate at home.  It was chopped raw asparagus, shaved parmessan, lentils, and  oranges tossed in balsamic & olive oil.  The flavors all complemented each other so well.  Overall, just a phenomenal meal.  Oh yeah, and it's a great beer spot - not that that matters for this vino girl though!!

Sunday morning was originally supposed to be the best weather of the weekend, so we had pre-booked an architectural boat tour for 11am that day.  Again, we woke up to clouds and temperatures in the 50s.  Just as we were approaching the docking station, the rain came again, and this time even harder than the day before.  There was a heavy cloud of fog too, that didn't allow you to see the tops of any buildings.  Exactly the worst conditions for an architectural tour.  The tickets were non-refundable, so we decided we would just have to suck it up.  There was a covered lower level on the boat, but by the time we got there, there weren't any seats left below, and there was no visibility to the buildings.  We each bought a $2 poncho and went to the upper deck as the tour began and the rain continued to beat down on us.  We got to hear a lot about the history of the city and how it became the architectural capital of America, and I did find it extremely interesting.  If the weather had been on our side, I would have had no complaints.

By the time the 90-minute tour concluded, I was soaked to the bone, despite the best efforts of my poncho and umbrella to keep me dry.  We decided we would get lunch on our way back to the hotel.  We stumbled upon an Italian wine & cheese bar called Quartino and stopped in to eat.  We warmed up with delicious soups served in individual clay dutch ovens.  The food was wonderful and helped to lift our spirits over the weather.

 The fog we had on the tour.

 More fog.

That night we met some friends that Sam knew in town for some classic deep dish pizza at Lou Malnati's.  It was SO GOOD.  I had never had deep dish before and it was so much better than I was expecting.  Not only that, the meal was very economical.  After dinner we went out for some Chicago night life at a speak easy.  I ended up turning in early, but Sam stayed out for some fun.

The next morning we packed up and headed back to the Big Apple.  We were quite relieved to get home.  Unfortunately, the weather had really taken a damper on our vacation, especially knowing everyone back home was enjoying sunny beach weather.  I will say though that all the food we had was amazing and was my favorite part of the trip.  

So how does Chicago compare to NYC? Here is my side-by-side comparison:

WHAT: Pizza

WINDY CITY: Deep dish.  To eat: knife and fork may be necessary.

GOTHAM: Thin crust.  To eat: fold and half and eat with your hands.

WINNER: TIE. Not only was the deep dish delicious and filling, it was cheap! Check out http://www.loumalnatis.com/ . But there is also something to be said for good ole slice of NY style thin crust. Favorite in the city is La Pizzaria: http://lapizzerianyc.com/ . 

WHAT: ARCHITECTURE

WINDY CITY: Spacious and not as concerned about budget as they are about honoring the design.

GOTHAM: Buildings built narrow and tall, and not as many high quality buildings.

WINNER: WINDY CITY.  There are so many more interesting buildings in Chicago than there are in New York, and they do not sacrifice the craftsmanship and art as much as NYC contractors.

WHAT: PUBLIC TRANSPORTATION

WINDY CITY: Subways (the "L") and buses.  Subways are differentiated by colors and are a bit sporadic in their coverage.

GOTHAM: Multiple train and subway options for all parts of town and the boroughs.  GOTHAM.  As much as I might complain about the MTA in NY, the public transport in Chicago is a joke compared to NY.  It's not as easy to understand, it's slower, and does not cover as much of the city. 

WHAT: ACCESSIBILITY TO OTHER CITIES

WINDY CITY: Major airport hub, so there are lots of flights to choose from.  Located just an hour and a half plane ride from either New York or KC, but most bigger cities require a plane ride to get to.

GOTHAM: A bus ride away from Boston, Philly, and DC for $30 roundtrip, leaving every hour, but it's a long plane ride to Phoenix or Cali.

WINNER: GOTHAM.  Closer to more major cities in my opinion.

WHAT: BAR SCENE

WINDY CITY: Can't speak to this much, but the drinks sure are cheaper!

GOTHAM: Every type of scene imaginable.  People drink a lot in this city because most apartments are too small to just go and "hang out" with friends, so our bars become what other people use couches for.  Drinks can be insanely expensive.  I get reverse sticker shock when I go to other cities.

WINNER: TIE.  Depends whether you want options & scenes vs. economics.

WHAT: PEOPLE

WINDY CITY: Walk at a much slower pace, but incredibly friendly and full of manners.  Everyone has faith in humanity.

GOTHAM: Everyone has an edge, and in order to survive here, you must develop one too.  One time walking down the street outside of Grand Central Terminal, a guy was walking the opposite direction of me and bumped my shoulder so hard that I almost fell.  No apologies.  But I did turn around and yell some choice words. No one has faith in humanity and if you do, you'll get your identity stolen or scammed some other way. 

WINNER: WINDY CITY (as if it weren't obvious...).  Oh, how I miss the people in the Midwest.  People actually look you in the eye and say please and thank you.  They do need to learn to walk faster though.

WHAT: SPORTS

WINDY CITY: They've got the Cubbies, the White Sox, the Bears, etc.  Wrigley is a cool experience, but the fans don't really get into the game very much.

GOTHAM: Nine professional sports teams plus some minor league teams.  Fans here are die hard.  But they are also haters.

WINNER: GOTHAM.  Gotta love the passion.

WHAT: WEATHER

WINDY CITY: When it's nice, it's nice, but when it's bad, it's baaaaaad.  Snowy, windy, and cold most of the year.

GOTHAM: Similar to weather in the midwest, but without the thunderstorms.  It's typically 5-10 degrees warmer here in the winter compared to KC, and 5-10 cooler here in the summer compared to KC.  I'm in a constant debate with myself if it's worse here or in KC, though, because here you are exposed to the elements.  We don't just have cars to jump into and crank up the AC or the heat.  When it snows, we have no choice but to walk through it, and all the cement from the tall buildings radiate the heat like an oven, making the whole city smell like a garbage can.

WINNER: GOTHAM.  I can't deal with the cold.

WHAT: COST

WINDY CITY: Midwestern costs, slightly elevated depending on neighborhood, etc.

GOTHAM: Insanely expensive.  For what we pay in rent, we could have a mortgage on a 3-4 bedroom house in the midwest.  Beers are $7 or $8 & rent is typically half of a person's monthly income.  Most people in their 20's still have some sort of financial support from their parents, unless they work in finance.

WINNER: WINDY CITY.  (No need to explain why!)

OVERALL WINNER: 

What can I say?  I love New York...

Life Happens

I realize I have been a total slacker and my posts are getting fewer and further between.  I promise to be better at this, especially since I made Sam do all the work to duplicate the original Reese photo!  The problem with New York though is that it literally never sleeps – the adage is true.  Life is constantly going, going, going, and it can be hard to find the time to sit down and write something.  I’ve lived other places and do not want to be snooty to say that people outside of this city don’t lead busy lives, but I do believe there is more opportunity to constantly have a packed agenda.  It’s what you do with your time that determines whether or not you’re living up to the full hustle and bustle of this city.

Take for example, my friend Ash.  She is always on the go.  She is always peppy.  She is always up for whatever.  If you’ve seen the movie “Election” with none other than this website’s namesake, Reese Witherspoon, she is the epitome of Reese’s character, Tracy Flick (one year, Ash even dressed as Tracy Flick for Halloween – priceless).  She is incredibly ambitious, competitive, and ultimately successful.  She packs her schedule to the minute of every day, with sleep being on the lower end of her priorities. 

Then there’s me.  I consider myself to be busy and keep a tight schedule, but this is nothing compared to my aforementioned friend.  The difference?  Operating hours.  This city may never sleep, but thanks to a variety of genetic reasons, this girl does!  I require more sleep than most of the ladies in a nursing home.  This limits how much my body allows me to accomplish in a day. 

During the week, I go to the gym early in the morning, work during the day, make dinner at night for Sam and me, and may grab a drink with a friend once in a while after work.  After that, I’m spent by 9 or 9:30 and crash, just to start it all over again the next day.  One night a week I tutor after work (refer to previous post about Henry), and I spend the other weeknights/weekends actively involved in the Mizzou NYC Alumni Chapter, volunteering at events, attending happy hours, attending chapter meetings, and playing on our co-ed softball and football teams.  Sundays usually involve a trip to our (awesome) church, meal planning for the week, grocery shopping, and laundry.  I also recently started volunteering with the Alzheimer’s Association’s NYC chapter.

All that may not seem super time-consuming compared to the lives of those reading this, but the other thing that takes up a lot of time is commuting.  Even living in central Manhattan, it takes on average 30 minutes to get anywhere because of the density of this city.  If you have the money to cab places, you may save time, but being reliant upon public transportation leaves you vulnerable to the delays of the loathed MTA (Metropolitan Transportation Authority) and can make a two-mile commute take 45 minutes.

That brings me to the title of my post: life happens.  So you will have to forgive me for the lack of consistency in my posts.  Plus, I want to make sure they are interesting and not just writing to have something. 

That’s my brief post for now; next to come: my take on the Windy City vs. Gotham…

Pun Intended

In New York CIty, apartments are everywhere, and I'm not just talking about the high rises you see.  Apartments are hidden and tucked in just about everywhere you look, most often above store fronts and food venues.  

In my second apartment I lived in, I was living on the Upper East Side on 2nd Avenue, between 88th and 89th Streets, above a restaurant/bar called Elaine's.  I never saw people my age in there, so I didn't go check it out myself for a while.  A friend of mine informed me that it was a very famous New York establishment, which I never expected living in such an unchic area of town.  

Over time I heard more and more about it and finally ventured in one time with some friends.  Once inside, it was easy to tell that every person in there was a regular and that we were clearly foreigners.  The walls were lined with framed playbills and autographed movie posters, and a large elderly woman sat on the edge of her chair at a table near the front, her eyes framed with abnormally large round glasses.  The two friends I was with had been there before and knew immediately that the key was to make nice with the bartender, and then everyone else's gaze would come off of you.  

This was not a bar for a young twenty-something trying to make it in the fashion industry; this was a bar for famous authors pulling up in limousines, actors who were in their prime in the 1970s, and any sort of professionals over 40 years old and making six figures.  Clearly, I did not fit in, but it was still a place to be experienced.  The famed name most commonly associated with this bar is Woody Allen, who filmed a scene there in his film, "Manhattan."  Over the course of the 2 1/2 years I lived in that apartment, I can't count how many times I came home to see film crews setting up outside the restaurant.

The even cooler thing?  Elaine, herself, owned the entire building, which meant that I was renting an apartment from her.  

I have since moved from that apartment this past fall, and Elaine actually has passed away.  I am now living in a quite different neighborhood of Midtown East, in an area called Sutton Place.  The dynamic in this neighborhood is quite different, but I like that I am not so far uptown.  Once again I am living above a store-front and a restaurant.  On one side is Madison Diner, which is pretty much straight out of Seinfeld and constantly packed with customers wanting their mediocre food.  On the other side is something quite contrary: a "novelty" store, creatively named Come Again.  I have inserted a photo as evidence.  

I know Elaine would be so proud.

Between the yellow and red awnings was the door to my apartment.

Elaine Kaufman

(And they're having a sale!)

Coincidence, schmoincidence...

Last week at church, our pastor Brian talked about affirming and denying the Resurrection of Jesus Christ on the cross.  By "affirming or denying," he was not referring to whether or not we believed the event happened, but whether or not we affirm the Resurrection in our actions in life after that of the Lord, in order to show him praise for his sacrifices and live in the way he has asked of his followers.  It is a message that has stayed in my mind over the last week.  One of the hardest parts of trying to live your life as an affirmation, though, is that you don't always get proof of the change you're trying to be in the world, but last night I was given such proof.

Sam and I went to a French restaurant in our neighborhood that we had never been to before.  The restaurant itself was quite small - only a little over a dozen tables plus the bar.  We were seated at a two-top table with one side on the booth that lined the wall, and because of the small space, we were quite cozy with the neighboring tables.

There was a small space on the other side of the table next to us, and I asked Sam if he thought that's where the advertised live music for the night was going to be set up.  Before he could answer, our neighbors affirmed, "Yes, it is; we just asked the same thing."  That comment led to a few other small talk comments, which led me to my usual talking at the faces of a strangers incessantly at the speed of light - much like I did to Sam the night we met (see, I picked him up, not the other way around...), and also led me to the conclusion that the couple was in from out of town.   A few minutes later I stopped mid-sentence and said, "I'm sorry - I'm from the Midwest.  I talk a lot."  (This is the time-frame in which Sam is usually sitting silently, trying his best not to roll his eyes over my repeated chatting up with strangers, silent, and looking down at his plate.)

The response?  "Oh, that's OK, I'm actually from the Midwest too," said the husband, who was about my father's age.

"Oh, really??  Where are you from?"

"Kansas City.  Well actually I grew up in Overland Park."

This immediately set off a firestorm of questions and findings of commonalities, including that the husband, Mark*, went to Mizzou!!

Through additional conversation, we learned that Mark and Karen* were in town from Los Angeles.  Mark was in on business, and they staying for a long weekend.  Per my usual self, I asked if they needed any restaurant recommendations, etc.  For the next hour or so, we chatted as the live music set up on the other side of their table, and I gave them a list of non-tourist places to eat and visit.  We continued to enjoy a lovely evening with this couple and were amazed over the chances that we would be seated next to each other in a restaurant in one of the biggest cities in the world.

As the plates were cleared from our tables, Mark excused himself and I sat talking with Karen while Sam listened in on the live music.  She leaned into me and said, "I don't want you to say anything, but I just [got some devastating health news] yesterday, and talking with you two is the first time I haven't thought about it since I found out." (Out of respect to Karen, I am refraining from verbalizing what the actual news was...).  I immediately threw my arms around her without even thinking about it.  It was such an emotional moment - incredibly sad, yet also so touching of a comment to receive from a complete stranger.

Before Mark and Karen left, I gave them my email address and insisted they let us know the next time they were in town.

When they left, Sam gave me his quizzical look, obviously regarding the hug.  When I told him what Karen had said, he sat in silence for quite a few moments.  I finally broke the silence and said, "I don't think this was all just a coincidence.  This was a sign from God."

Sam slowly responded, "I was just going to say the same thing..."

In the next hour of our date night out, we couldn't stop thinking about the blessing we had just witnessed.  I started thinking about Brian's message, and it led me to be filled with a joy I cannot put into words.  Striking up a conversation with a stranger (as I said, is something that usually annoys Sam) ended up making the day of someone who is suffering.  This experience affirmed to me that I should continue to just be me, because playing the character of me without any filters, affected someone in a positive way.  This is the character I want to continue to develop in myself.  THIS is what Brian was talking about!  THIS is the message of God!

This experience was not a coincidence.  It was not a chance of random people meeting at a random time.  THIS. WAS. FATE.

This was the work of the Lord.

*names changed

Easter "Peeps" Show

Sam and I attend a contemporary non-denominational church here in the city called Forefront.  I’ve been a spotty attendee over the last two years, and last year I dragged Sam there once and now he regularly encourages me to attend.  The church itself as a community is pretty young on average – mostly college students and young professionals – and the services are held inside of a bar venue (kind of funny to walk into church on Sunday mornings and see signs for jello shots…), which is not abnormal in a city stacked on top of itself.  Our pastor is in his mid-thirties and dresses in a trendy New York style.  Sam is involved in a small group (bible study), and the people in it are incredibly fun and actually know how to party.  All in all, we love our church and the people that go there.

This weekend at the ever-popular Easter services, church was held at a larger venue across the street at a local college to accommodate for the additional once-a-year church-goers.  I must admit I’m not always the most attentive Christian student; I often find someone or something to fixate on that helps me get through the parts I may not find so interesting, and this service was no exception. (**As a side note, I personally blame my mother and my “other mother”, my Aunt Shellie, for this fixation habit, having grown up constantly hearing stories like, “We saw this woman on the plane that had THE BIGGEST pimple on the back of her neck.  I was just staring at it trying to will it to pop!”)

Just as the service was starting, this husband and wife came in and took the seats in front of Sam and me just as we were starting to sing worship songs.  I had never seen them at our church before, but I figured they were just trying out the Easter service like so many others.  I immediately fixated on the uneven bobbed haircut of the wife.  It was chin length all the way around except for a very thin layer at the nape of her neck that was two inches longer than the rest.  Additionally, the bob part itself looked like she had maybe let a blind person do it.  What puzzled me was that she had brown roots starting to grow in, so she obviously had her hair done somewhere….which got me thinking further – is someone actually telling her that this haircut looks good?  Those were the kind of meaningless thoughts that were going through my head and I had to force myself to refocus on the scripture up on the screen in front of me.  I continued to fixate on this meaningless haircut and also noticed that she kept leaning over to her husband and whispering things.  So you come to a new church, on Easter, and talk throughout the whole thing?  Hmm, interesting. 

Fast forward about 30 minutes later, and our pastor Brian was in full-swing up front, talking about the Resurrection.  I was listening intently and actually very engaged and interested in what he was saying.  That was quickly averted though as the wife, who had stepped out a few minutes earlier, came back and sat down with her toddler son, whom I guess was about 2 ½.  She held him for a while like a baby, which I thought was weird for a toddler, but then I thought maybe he was just tired.  But a few minutes later, the husband took the hand of the little boy, and they walked up the aisle and left.  He returned shortly sans the little boy.  We were sitting in only the 3^rd row in one of the side sections, so the whole show was happening about ten feet from the pastor and in my direct line of vision.

After church, Sam and I went to brunch with some girls from Forefront, who had been sitting on my left during the service.  Kristi said, “Oh my God!!!!  I could not concentrate because of that lady in front of us!”  I asked, “Oooh, you mean the lady with the crooked haircut?”  Kristi responded, “Well, yeah that, but she wasbreast-feeding her son during the service!”  Shocked, I realized that the initial thought that had come into my head when she was holding the boy like a baby was that she was breast-feeding, but I had immediately dismissed that notion since she was not covering herself at all and was in a public setting surrounded by hundreds of strangers. 

I know this is a hotly debated topic amongst mothers, and I myself am not one yet, so I can only give my own spectator perspective, which is: cover yourself when you’re in public.  I am not against mothers breast-feeding even in public, but there is a respectful way to do it.  It’s not just about your own personal comfort, but the comfort of those around you.  I can only imagine what our pastor Brian was thinking as he talked about Jesus’s sacrifices for us and looked around to his flock to see an exposed breast in his very short line of vision (I mean, let’s me honest, no man can concentrate when there is even mention of a naked or semi-naked woman, let alone when it’s right in front of them).

The other thing that I couldn’t get over was that this boy was walking, talking, and had a full set of teeth.  In my opinion, unless there is some sort of health allergy or sensitivity that prevents a child of that age from drinking some other sort of milk, he is too old to be asking his mom for a snack.

Needless to say, you won’t be catching me whipping it out at any future church services.

The fabric of our lives

Working in the fashion industry often lends itself to the stereotypical assumption that it's an industry just about shopping and gossip, driven by shallow unintelligent girls and gay men, who are super chic and spend their time backstage at runway shows trying to avoid the glare of one Anna Wintour, while sipping on bellinis and smoking cigarettes.  I'm here to tell you that the majority of us in the fashion industry do not experience life in this manner.

Yes, I work with people that you might liken to Meryl Streep in "The Devil Wears Prada," but most of them are not that extreme.  Don't get me wrong - it is definitely an industry where everyone is out for themselves and is extremely patronizing, but I also don't have a boss that throws a coat at my face when she walks in the door.  But the two biggest rumors I want to put to rest about working in the fashion industry are the following:

1. It is not as glamorous as people think it is, and
2. It requires more knowledge than just being able to spit off the latest trends in Vogue.

Before I go into my reasoning, I need to explain what it is exactly that I do.  Unfortunately, it always seems to be hard to explain in just a few words, so forgive me in advance for my wordy explanation of apparel production.  The best way to explain it is to liken it to a project manager or a producer of a movie;  I basically am managing a product and monitoring the people, finances, and timing that go into that product, from initial concept, to getting that product to the consumer.  The people that I manage include buyers/merchandisers, designers, product developers, and factories.  The finances I manage include cost negotiations of the actual product at the factory level, understanding international currencies and foreign trade/importing/exporting, factory commissions, & internal profit margins, among others.  The timing I manage relates to hitting necessary milestones in the product development cycle.  

Now that I've explained what I do briefly, that hopefully gives you a glimpse as to why I say my job is not glamorous; it is business.  I will go into that more throughout my future posts, but the purpose of this post is more to illustrate my second argument about the knowledge level required.

COTTON!!!!  No, I'm not talking about the stuff on the end of your q-tip, but the fibers that are in your clothes (although they are derived from the same thing).  In the last 9 or so months, cotton commodities have been priced higher than ever.  Prices have been climbing steadily since the middle of last year, with prices only holding for 24 hours or less.  The primary cause of the rising price has been demand ousting supply.  The low supply can be attributed to initial lower demand compared to other commodities such as soybeans and corn, flooding and droughts, poor quality of the crop, and government trading restrictions (suppliers even resorted to hoarding their crops out of fear of the fluctuating market).  Trying to manage a global business where cotton is one of your primary fabric fibers has thus become next to impossible.  

From a business point of view, companies have been forced to come up with new strategies in the hopes of saving money, or more accurately, reduce the losses they are inevitably going to have to take.  As prices first started to climb, retailers did their best to absorb the increasing fiber prices at profit losses in order to secure sales, but we are now in an environment where retailers have no choice but to pass on at least some of the expense to the consumer.  And guess what?  Those higher retail prices are coming to a store near you starting NOW.  

While the economy has very slowly been recovering (or so they say), we have not felt the effects of the worst of it in the apparel industry until now because of the length of the apparel product life-cycle.  The products that you are going to see in stores and shopping for this month, were designed 9-15 months ago, so the fabric that was purchased for that product was done late summer of last year, just when prices started to climb.  

We have finally started to see a small bit of relief in commodities pricing, but no one knows how long it will last.  New cotton crops will be harvested in August, so prices look to stay high through that time period.  So far the trends are showing a small dip in price September/October/November, then increasing again in December and beyond.  To put things in perspective, a year ago, cotton was selling at approximately 85 cents/lb; last Friday, April 15th, cotton was trading at 219.45 cents/lb, which is actually down from the all-time high of 243.65 cents/lb recorded on March 8th of this year.

OK, so have I bored you to death yet?  If so, that was not my intention.  My only intent has been to show you that fashion is still a business, and not just an on-going series of editorial ad campaigns you see in magazines and on billboards.  

When I went into fashion as a major in college, I certainly never anticipated that stock trading terms would become a part of my daily vocabulary, but here I am, just trying to figure out what the hell it all means.